


Lonely Hearts Columns (or, The Single-Malt Whiskey Song)

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Experiments in Alternates [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blind Date, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Humor, Infidelity (Sort Of), Light Angst, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Romance, does it count if you're cheating on each other... with each other?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: Sherlock and John's relationship is stagnating, until one day, in a fit of ennui, Sherlock picks up a newspaper for once. What he finds there among the absurd articles and ridiculous advertisements may change everything... AU in which connections (or perhaps re-connections) come from unexpected sources. Inspired by the Pina Colada Song by Rupert Holmes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I know this has kind of been done before, and in this fandom too (I think), but I had the song stuck in my head for like a full 12 hours and so... well, this happened. Hope you enjoy. (Also I don't own the Pina Colada Song or Sherlock.)

Sherlock rolled over, yawning. He blinked open his eyes and saw from the state of the space beside him - empty, the sheets already cool - that John had already gotten up. Stretching idly, he slowly slid out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen, shrugging on his blue dressing gown in the process. 

"Morning," John greeted, focused on his coffee and paper in front of him. 

Sherlock grunted, too sleepy to respond more articulately. He helped himself to coffee and promptly slumped into his armchair. As he did so, John stood, tossed the paper down on his own chair on his way to the coat rack, and then headed out the door. "See you after class, Sherlock." 

"Bye," he called absentmindedly. He hardly noticed John was leaving, so deep was he in thought already.

It was the usual rubbish start that began all their days lately. Distance, few words, solitary hours.

Three hours later, Sherlock was pacing and trying to resist the urge to slap on a third nicotine patch. He was so bored! He never had classes on Thursdays, and he'd finished the readings for the next week, as well as the lab report due the coming Monday, so he had no schoolwork to occupy him, no matter how simplistic the assignments may be. 

And sadly, his experiments were all either concluded, at a stage where he simply had to let them sit and do their thing, or he lacked the proper supplies. And the university had suspended him from entering certain parts of the chemistry lab after he'd been caught sneaking out sulfuric acid and a pair of fetal pigs. John had even insisted he obey the university for once. Sherlock's probation lasted another three weeks, so he would have to hold off on some of the more promising experiments he had planned. Tedious.

Even worse, it had been over two weeks since their last case. Sherlock had been working as a sort-of consultant with Scotland Yard recently, even though he was still had three terms left before his degree would be completed. The cases had been wonderful and exciting for the first two months of the new term, but now it seemed that they had hit a drought. Exactly zero clever criminals were on a rampage, not a single case presented itself that was higher than a four. There were no new comments on either of their blogs, nothing from Detective Inspector Lestrade, no convenient independent client visits, nothing on the news channels. Nothing, nothing, _nothing!_

What were the criminals playing at? Couldn't at least one of them provide him with something, _anything_ , to do? He wasn't insisting upon a murder; even a mysterious robbery or kidnapping would do. That wasn't asking much! 

Stalking back and forth frantically, Sherlock began to scan the room for something, even the smallest thread of intriguing thought, to occupy him. His gaze landed on the newspaper from the morning, which John had abandoned on his chair. Snatching it up, he scoured the headlines, finding nothing but inane incidents of no interest whatsoever. He continued flicking through, speed-reading. However, at the personal ads - with the ridiculous name "Lonely Hearts" attached - he slowed, eyes narrowing. 

There. What was that? 

Part of the way down the second column was a rather ridiculous poem, obviously from some poor, desperate soul. Still, as his eyes tracked across the lines, he felt himself strangely perplexed and... interested. 

The ad read: 

_If you like single-malt whiskey_

_And getting caught in the rain_

_If you're into adventures and the taste of chow mein_

_If you like making love at midnight in a moonlit landscape_

_Then I'm the love that you've looked for_

_Write to me and escape_

Well. That was certainly something Sherlock had never encountered before. Which was a delightful change from how his life had been lately. 

He reread the ad again, deducing what little he could about the anonymous source. The writer had a rather sophisticated taste in whiskey, so was obviously particular about what he or she drank. That showed they were probably from a background that enjoyed alcohol so they had experience with beverages of many sorts to be so aware of which they most preferred. Single-malt wasn't Sherlock drink of choice, finding it too strong for his taste, which leaned toward white wines. Certain whiskeys he had tasted he had even found rather abhorrent. When John imbibed, however, he often favored Scotch, though Sherlock wasn't sure that was his favorite. If he'd ever said, Sherlock had deleted it. 

The second line of the poem probably meant the person didn't mind the climate of London specifically, for this was a local rather than regional or national paper. Unfortunately that did not narrow down the pool of possible writers at all; there were millions still who could have easily taken out the ad and who gladly tolerated London's unpredictable weather patterns. Sherlock didn't mind gentle showers due to their oddly soothing nature, but he couldn't entirely count himself among those who fully enjoyed spontaneous precipitation; water washed away evidence too easily and effectively. 

The third line was perhaps most compelling of them all. Sherlock liked adventures of course - he virtually lived for the adrenaline - and he did enjoy chow mein as well. Chinese food in general was one of the only types of sustenance in which he would almost always willingly indulge, even nibbling a spring roll or two while on a case if John begged enough. This was the line, therefore, that told Sherlock he could very well find this person amenable, should he manage to discover their identity. 

The fourth line didn't reveal much beyond certain preferences about sexual activities. Nothing really out of the ordinary. And the last two lines were self-evident and sadly didn't reveal much more than that this person had a romantic streak and was simply looking for satisfaction of that sentiment in the form of another human being. Nothing that pointed toward a real lead as to their identity. 

Sherlock needed more data. Rather than discouraging him, though, the realization made him smile. It seemed the usually-tedious local paper had actually served up a nice little riddle, one Sherlock would gladly unravel. All he needed to do was write back to this person. 

He was halfway to darting across the room for paper and a pen when he paused, lips pursed. There was the matter of John. It was possible that this correspondence he was about to engage in with a third party could be considered infidelity. And since he and John had been in a committed relationship for nearly a year, cheating would be frowned upon.

Not that their relationship had been anything particularly stimulating lately. Over the course of the last few months especially, they had fallen into a rather repetitious, dull cycle. Certainly, the cases were exciting, and the sex admittedly astounding, but there had been less and less of both in the past ten weeks approximately. There had even been fewer chaste touches, Sherlock noted as he flopped onto the sofa to think. John used to kiss his cheek when heading off to class or when returning home, used to hold his hand while walking around in the streets, used to touch the small of his back when slipping by him in the kitchen. Those had all grown less and less frequent. 

Their talks had diminished in frequency and meaning too, Sherlock realized. Before, they would stay up late into the nights after their homework or a case was finished and tell each other stories, about their lives or dreams or secrets or deepest fears. Those conversations had been some of the most meaningful moments of connection Sherlock had ever experienced. Now it was rare for these to happen, and they never lasted as long as they had in earlier times. In fact, he couldn't recall precisely when it was one of these talks had last been. 

Sherlock scowled, a tight feeling growing in his chest. Was John losing interest in him? Had Sherlock done something wrong, or said something to convince John that perhaps this relationship was not in their best interests? Was John planning on leaving him? He wasn't sure, and he immediately loathed that feeling. 

Rather than give in to his fear that he was going to lose his first truly good, truly amazing, boyfriend, he sat up, eyes squeezed shut as he contemplated other explanations. John may be less affectionate than before but there was a chance he may not have changed his mind about Sherlock. After all, he still willingly accompanied his boyfriend on cases, clearly taking delight in the adventures. And when they did have sex, John still seemed enthusiastic. So maybe he had decided to give Sherlock space lately, for some reason. Or... perhaps John himself desired space lately. They couldn't _always_ be all over each other, after all. Sherlock wasn't exactly a relationship savant, but he supposed it stood to reason that over time affection would wane to some degree as a comfortable routine settled. 

But any tender affection John used to show seemed almost to be going away entirely, rather than just lessening, and whatever excuses Sherlock made, he couldn't shake that truth. 

Well then. If John no longer wanted him, or was losing interest, then what harm would it be to answer this personal ad, this lonely heart? It could be an experiment, a simple fulfillment of curiosity, a test to see what would happen. Sherlock didn't have to do anything with this person, whoever it was. How could it be considered infidelity if he went into this situation with no intention of engaging in any sort of romantic or sexual activity with this person? 

Having at last come to this conclusion, he stood, eyes gleaming, and retrieved paper and a writing implement. 

Over the next few minutes, he penned these words: 

_Well, I hate single-malt whiskey_

_But I don't mind the rain_

_I like waves on the ocean and the taste of chow mein_

_I'd like to meet with you noon Saturday to learn what may take shape_

_At a pub called The Beehive we might plan our escape_

There, he thought as he considered his handiwork. He wasn't exactly a poet, finding such writings insipid and useless, but it didn't seem to be too awful. It wasn't unlike something John might come up with when in a particularly playful mood. Best of all, though he promised to at least talk, he didn't promise anything untoward or certain; his strategic use of the word "might" insured that. He could always walk away, return to John. 

Assuming John still wanted him. 

Assuming he still wanted John.

Yes, this reply would work, surely. 

Smiling, he threw on clothes, shoes, and his coat haphazardly. Time to take out an ad of his own, and then he would see where this led. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent the hours before his meeting time in a state of intense anticipation. On Friday he subtly scanned the Lonely Hearts columns in the paper John brought in to confirm that his reply had been included and was satisfied to see it there, bold and eager. 

He spent rest of the day - when he wasn't in the chemistry lab for school, under careful watch by his admittedly competent professor - pondering who this person was he was planning to meet. He hoped they wouldn't be boring. It could be an elaborate prank, or someone simply looking for a chat and a shag. Or it could be someone earnestly seeking a connection. He couldn't be sure, and that only made him more impatient for tomorrow to arrive. He wanted to get to the bottom of this, and then maybe decide about John. 

He cared for John, he really did. There was still a shiver of anticipation whenever John kissed him, still a flutter in his stomach when John wrapped his arms around him on the sofa after a long day. But most of the time, it felt... routine. Whatever had been between them before had faded. Things were dull, which was a descriptor that once Sherlock would have never dreamed of attributing to John, or to their relationship.

It just didn't really... matter anymore.

Maybe this mystery ad-maker would solve his indecision, would push him to either returning to John or moving on. 

At the very least, it had finally given him something fascinating to consider again. It had been too long. 

That night, the night before the meeting, Sherlock lay awake in bed, gazing down at his lover as he slumbered. John had been quiet all day, evidently stressed from the upcoming final exams and his thus-far fruitless efforts to secure an internship at the London hospitals. For the first time in what he estimated to be six weeks, Sherlock had placed his head in John's lap that evening as they were settling down in the sitting room to study, and John had stroked his hair absentmindedly. By the time they both headed to bed, they were relaxed from the gentle ministrations, and things _almost_ felt normal. 

And Sherlock had felt himself simultaneously wishing things could stay that way, but also longing for something new to come along tomorrow and sweep him away from their routine. 

His eyes roved over John's face in the dim light from the street lamp outside their window. His boyfriend's face looked paler in this bleak light than it did in the daytime, though the shape of his cheeks and lips, and the way his eyelashes curled, were so familiar to Sherlock. He watched as John shifted a bit in sleep, nestling a hair closer to Sherlock. He let out a breathy little sigh, and Sherlock's lips quirked up at the noise. 

Did he want to stay? In the moment, both he and John were comfortable, warm and safe in their shared bed. But in the morning they would get up and go about their daily lives as if they were jobs rather than passions. Just as they had for months now. When that happened, what would Sherlock want?

He honestly wasn't sure. 

Turning so he was no longer facing John, he took out the newspaper page and stared at it, eyes roving over the words of the mysterious someone, whose mood appeared to match his own: both were looking for more than what they had. Both needed change. His eyes glazed over somewhat as he read and reread the message, pausing at the rhymes and lingering over the longing emanating off the page.

And again, the question. What did Sherlock want?  
The question seemed to echo hollowly through his mind palace, but no reply came to him.

He huffed softly, settling deeper into his pillows and closing his eyes, blindly replacing the page under the mattress. Perhaps answers would come the next day, in the pub, with the anonymous writer. 

 

* * *

 

The Beehive Pub was only a few minutes' walking distance away from 221B, but Sherlock was still fifteen minutes early. John had nipped out for groceries, so Sherlock had scrawled a quick note about doing research at the lab as an excuse, which he had left on the kitchen table. Then, awash with desperate anticipation, he'd set off, knowing he was too early but not caring in the slightest. All he knew was that watching John walk about the flat, humming a tune (one Sherlock often played for him on violin) and nimbly twirling a pencil around his fingers while he scanned biology notes, had made Sherlock want to scream with indecision. Could he stay? Should he stay? Did John still love him? 

He entered the pub and sat at a deserted table. He'd just beaten the lunch rush, it seemed, and tried to kill time by observing the small clusters of patrons. None of them were his anonymous writer; he could tell. Besides, nearly all were accompanied by another person, and those who were not seemed in a hurry or were distracted by things like books or their phones. 

Sherlock slipped the ad from his pocket. He'd torn the original note, the one written by the other person, from the paper before tossing the rest in the bin. It could be a sign to display his reason for being here. 

At five minutes to noon, Sherlock felt he was practically vibrating with anxiety and impatience. He valued punctuality, so he hoped the anonymous writer would not be late, it would be so terribly annoying. John was never late to things unless he had to be; otherwise he always made sure to show up at least several minutes early... 

The door of the pub swung open again, for the seventh time since Sherlock had arrived, and he looked up, with high hopes. 

The man's lips were curved in a slightly nervous smile, one he recognized instantly. His cheeks, the shape of him, were the most familiar things Sherlock knew.

John. 

Well, that changed things.

He was wearing the same deep blue shirt he always used to wear when he planned to sneak Sherlock away from studying to go on an impromptu date. Sherlock had once admitted, blushing and a little drunk on John's kisses and half a bottle of wine, that the shade brought out his eyes. From then on, it was John's date shirt, his make-my-boyfriend-flustered shirt, Sherlock's favorite thing he wore.

In his hands - those strong hands, already surgeon-like - were clutching flowers. Clearly he'd visited the flower shop a few streets away, a detour that had enabled Sherlock to arrive first. The flowers in question were purple, accented by just a touch of yellow, three to four petals curled downwards.

Unbidden, Sherlock's mind palace doors opened, sending a whirlwind of paper scraps flying about haphazardly. One fluttered still enough for him to read:

_Iris: named for a Greek goddess; symbolizing faith, wisdom, valor, promise, hope._

Hope.

Oh. Date shirt, hope flowers... John wanted this to be successful.

Did that mean he really didn't want Sherlock anymore?

Sherlock watched, frozen, as his boyfriend scanned the patrons of the pub carefully, tracking gaze finally stopping at Sherlock's table in evident, palpable shock. His eyes flickered down to the newspaper page spread out before Sherlock on the table, and his eyes widened fractionally. 

Sherlock was on his feet as John reached him, crossing half the pub in what seemed to be just a few steps. 

"It's you," John murmured wonderingly, sliding a newspaper clipping of his own from his pocket. Sherlock saw his own reply there, printed in thick black letters. John had folded it so it was face up, most central. Important. 

He looked up and met John's gaze again, and then helpless, bemused laughter pealed from both their lips. Sherlock found himself basking in it. It was as if he had forgotten the sound of John's laugh. Bloody hell, where had he been these last few months? So caught up in his burgeoning detective career, determined to chase down the next fantastical mystery, he had neglected the mystery that was his own John Watson. He abruptly remembered the fascination he'd once had with John's many laughs, his smiles, the thousand different shades of blue in his eyes. He'd dedicated rooms and rooms of his mind palace, an entire wing even, to his John, to the things his John loved and hated, longed for and feared, to the way he wiggled his toes while stretched out on the sofa and to the way he sweetly kissed Sherlock goodnight. 

And Sherlock had forgotten, gotten caught up in other things, and _allowed_ John to slip away. He had allowed this, allowed the distance and the disinterest and the stagnating desire. He had allowed their relationship to fizzle, forgetting that while love was good, it still required work and effort, not neglect. And so he had allowed it to come to this, to desperate newspaper advertisements in order to find the affection they had once counted on, had once never doubted. 

He'd forgotten the most important thing about their relationship. He'd forgotten that the greatest mystery he had found in life so far was standing in front of him, clutching a page out of a Lonely Hearts section of a paper. 

Oh, he was such an idiot! How could he have thought he could find answers in some poem, in some anonymous writer? How could he have been unsure, even marginally, about his relationship with John? Why did he not just open his eyes and see the answer in front of him, in the form of a compact medical student who made Sherlock's heart flutter? _He_ was what Sherlock needed, not this absurd poem. 

And then... the realization crashed down on him. He'd forgotten, forgotten all this, neglected his relationship, until this newspaper ad. Had he never seen the poem, he would still be trundling along, unaware of how far John had slipped away from him. The ad had, instead of giving him a new puzzle and an alternative choice to John, provided a different way to remind Sherlock of what he was losing. Ever since he'd read the ad, he had been unable to keep his mind off, not the anonymous writer, but John. Staring at him while he slept, thinking about his kisses and embraces, reminiscing about their late-night study sessions and conversations, all these had only resumed because of this ad. 

Because of John, who'd put in the ad.

_Oh John Watson, you keep me right. You were bringing me back to you, and we didn't even know it._

John's eyes were soft, warm, and amused as they looked at each other, laughter trailing away. His hand not holding the irises was fiddling with the edge of his page. Sherlock bit his lip for a moment, before he spoke, voice quiet. 

"I never knew that you liked the rain so much."

John smiled. "I didn't know you liked the ocean." 

"Seems like a bit of an oversight, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, biting down on a smirk. "Not covering basic likes even once, in the five years we've known each other?"

John grinned, reaching out to lace his fingers with Sherlock's, the page falling onto the table to join the other. "Maybe we did. Maybe we've just forgotten since then." 

The grin faded then, and John looked up at Sherlock worriedly. Before he could speak though, Sherlock slipped his hand from John's and gestured for them to sit down. John first carefully deposited the flowers on the table, mindful not to break the petals. Once seated facing each other, Sherlock took his boyfriend's hands again. 

"Are you disappointed? That it's me, I mean?" John avoided Sherlock's gaze, keeping his eyes fixed instead on their entwined fingers.

Sherlock blinked. "I'm not disappointed," he replied, with complete honesty. "Are... Are you angry at me?"

"Why would I be?" John looked up quickly, startled. His fingers tightened around Sherlock's, which was a comfort.

"Doesn't answering an ad for romantic company count as cheating?" Sherlock asked softly.

John giggled then, the sound another balm to Sherlock's rather frayed nerves. "Well considering your boyfriend is the one who put that ad up in the first place, I'll say no. More like we were cheating on each other, with each other, wouldn't you say?" 

Sherlock smiled hesitantly, reassured by John's tender eyes and amused countenance. Still, he felt unsure about one thing. "Why _did_ you put the ad up?"

The gentle mirth in John's eyes was entirely gone now. "I don't really know... I guess I just.." He sighed and looked down at their entwined fingers. "It's almost like... what with school, and the cases going so well, and all the distractions we made for ourselves... it's like it became easier not to talk to each other. It was easy to take you for granted, which is crazy, because it's not like I ever deserved you. And then, after a while, it's like you weren't... you weren't my Sherlock anymore. You were more like a flatmate.

"Maybe," he sighed. "I put up that ad because it felt easier than trying to reach you again."

Sherlock lifted both John's hands to his lips then, ghosting kisses across his knuckles. John smiled as he watched, though his lapis lazuli eyes were saturated with melancholy. "I'm sorry," Sherlock finally replied. "I should have seen how we were losing each other. But you're right, I let myself get distracted. I put work first, and I stopped caring..." He shifted, unable to meet John's eyes as he admitted this awful truth. Guilt surged through him, but he knew he had to speak. "I stopped caring about keeping our relationship going well. And I didn't even realize until I got bored two days ago and read the Lonely Hearts columns."

John waited until Sherlock lifted his head to look at him again before murmuring, "You saw but you didn't observe. You saw I was still around, but not that we were drifting away from each other."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm sorry." The words, so foreign and odd-feeling, felt heavy somehow as he spoke them.

But John, his wonderful John, just shook his head. "I know, darling. I am too."

"You don't need to be sorry, though," Sherlock said, hands tightening their grasp. "You reminded me what I was missing." He tilted his head forward toward the poem on the table before them. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I read this, wondering what I should do about you and the anonymous writer. You're all I've been thinking about really, so you don't need to apologize. You brought me back to you."

John's eyes at last began to sparkle again, like they had always used to when Sherlock did something particularly clever or wonderful. Sherlock found himself soaking up that light. "Still. I shouldn't have let it get so bad that I stooped to personal ads."

"We'll do better this time," Sherlock vowed, feeling the words curl around them, full of sincerity and promise. 

John smiled at him, the look one of warmth and safety. Sherlock stood then, tugging John up with him. "Let's go home," he murmured, squeezing his boyfriend's fingers. John grinned and plucked the flowers off the table and proffered them to Sherlock. 

"For you."

Sherlock paused, then took them hesitantly. "I can't remember the last time you got me flowers."

"It was about eight months ago," John said, surprising him. "You scoffed about me being sentimental and that a three month anniversary hardly counted as a real anniversary. But you still took them. I could tell you liked them."

"I did not!" Sherlock retorted, though his rapidly-warming cheeks were busy betraying him, and his words came out all unconvincing anyway. 

John simply grinned knowingly and followed him out of the pub, the man behind the bar looking mildly affronted they'd not purchased anything. However, they were out on the street before he could say anything. The look he'd given, however, set them both off into fits of giggles that took a few minutes to dissipate. 

Once they'd calmed down, Sherlock looked at John's eyes again, those captivating, swirling globes of endless blue. "Are you hungry?" he asked, gaze flicking all over his boyfriend's face, eventually landing on his lips. 

A sly, teasing look came over John then, and he tugged Sherlock down to him as they abruptly came to a stop on the pavement. "Oh, I'm hungry alright," John breathed, and then their lips came together in a soft but eager collision, Sherlock letting out a faint gasp. Oh, he'd been missing this, and he hadn't even fully realized. Kissing John was intoxicating, was a gulp of sunlight, was better than any high from any drug could possibly be. He reached up to cup John's cheek and kissed back, sighing and smiling into his boyfriend's lips. 

When they pulled apart, breaths stuttering into each other's, they locked eyes again and grinned giddily. 

"You didn't really answer my question," Sherlock observed with an inordinate amount of amusement. 

"I'd love something to eat," John smirked. "How about chow mein?" 

Sherlock beamed at him. "It's a date." 

They set off again, hand in hand. Sherlock felt John's gaze still on him, and glanced over. "What?" 

"I love you," John murmured, eyes shining.

Sherlock moved closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "And I love _you_ , my dear John."

John beamed up at him, and Sherlock felt the weight, the promise, of his own words, so simple but deceptively weighty, potent. He didn't shy away anymore, though, for he meant what he said entirely. 

And as they continued walking, slipping into the easiest conversation they'd had in months, Sherlock smiled to himself. Their one year anniversary was coming up, and he now had the perfect way to celebrate. 

It seemed a date by the ocean, under the stars and the moonlight, was in order. 

And a gift of single-malt whiskey, of course. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Beehive Pub actually exists! I picked it because a, it had the right number of syllables, and b, it's called the beehive so of course a dork like Sherlock would want to go there ;)
> 
> Next in series: musicians.
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you thought!


End file.
